


Exploring Territories

by asparagusmama



Series: Seasons AU - extras! [3]
Category: Lewis - Fandom
Genre: Child Abuse, Cleaning, Homes, M/M, bereavement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asparagusmama/pseuds/asparagusmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More deleted scenes from Cold Summer - hey, it was the only Lewis/Hathaway for the first three months of doing this for my daughter last year! Lewis fetches James clean clothes and broods. Hathaway cleans Lewis' flat while he sleeps and tries to deal with what has happened to him. Lewis' pov between chapters two and three, after Hospital; Hathaway's between chapters three and four</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated again to the brilliant staff of the John Radcliffe's A&E in Oxford. Lewis' pov written after very little sleep after a night with my daughter, waiting to be seen by the paediatric neurologist. Hathaway's pov done a while ago.
> 
> Not exactly what you asked for, but for you Lady Death.
> 
> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV
> 
> (The very beautiful dawn sun soaked) Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....
> 
> Full story of my sad notes here http://asparagusmama.livejournal.com/

Between chapters two and three, after Hospital, Lewis is in Hathaway’s flat

Rory had taken Lewis’s number and gave him an ETA of two to three more hours before they would discharge James. They were obviously worried about his blood pressure, but they minimized everything to Lewis. They had him on an automatic blood pressure machine, it seemed to be checking every ten minutes, and the saline solutions they were pushing through him were obviously trying to raise it. Lewis had watched the coloured lines on the monitor from the pulse clip on James’ finger for a few moments after kissing him. Erratic and fast. Lewis knew next to nothing about medicine, but he was sure a fast and erratic pulse alongside a very low blood pressure – Lewis read 80/55 – was far from good. Rory had soothed everything was fine.

Since he had time, Lewis went home to get out his blood stained tux. Once in the flat he stared at the sofa, the end James had been sitting on. Blood.

Blood on the cushion and the back, light red blood smears from his nose and split lip, from the scratches on his cheek. Thick, dark red blood, pooled, where James had sat.

Lewis remembered the sickness in the pit of his stomach as James had looked up at him, curled up on his doorstep, his face battered and his eyes unfocused.

He covered his face with his hands, ashamed of himself, as he remembered kissing James, forcefully, for a minute being something that wasn’t him, something almost animal, primal and instinctive, aggressively pushing his tongue into James’ mouth like he was staking a claim, taking possession, undoing what had been done, making James his.

The little surprised moan James made, could have been surrender, but equally could have been pain. James had tasted of other men and of vomit and blood, but he hadn’t cared.

He must have been mad!

Enough of this. Time to pull himself together. First of all he fetched all the powerful cleaning products he had, a bowl of hot water and cleaning cloths and scrubbed and scrubbed at the blood until they were thin, pink barely noticeable stains. Then he showered, shaved and got dressed, as if for work. He phoned Laxton, who told him she’d informed Innocent he would be busy with James for a while and she told him they’d tracked James’ phone to Southampton and had made an arrest. They were being transferred to their custody suite.

“So Innocent knows what happened to James then? Can’t have been easy telling her.”

“It wasn’t Robbie. It was bloody hell. How is he?”

“Drugged. Asleep. On a drip. There’s a problem with his blood pressure but they’re not telling me anything. I’m at home, get myself cleaned up and then I’m back with some clothes for the boy. The hospital threw away those things you lent him.”

“That’s okay, they often do. We just keep cheap trackies and T-shirts here for just that. I suppose the blood pressure could be Rohypnol related. Cox got traces of amyl nitrates in the urine too.”

“Yeah, they mentioned that at hospital. Probably why his legs are so wobbly.”

“Like Bambi,” laughed Laxton, but she could feel the disapproval over the airwaves in Lewis’ silence. “Sorry Robbie.”

“Just – just make sure I don’t get let in the custody suite, Inspector, or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“He needs looking after, not stupid machismo. Didn’t think it was your style.”

“Me neither, Angie, but I want to kill those bastards right now, so help me I do. I’ve just cleaned off his blood from me sofa.”

“Is he okay? Cox was sure there was no serious damage.”

“No, he’s not bleeding to death. The doctor said it looks more than it is, but it looks a lot. I keep thinking how bloody unfair it is, as if the boy’s not been through enough crap as a kid.”

“He’s tough, you said so yourself.”

“Yeah. See you Angie.”

“Take care Robbie, yourself as well as him.”

Lewis fried himself a couple of eggs and made a mountain of toast, all washed down with copious amounts of tea. He sat down for a moment a closed his eyes.

An hour and a half later he was awake again and on his way to Iffley Road and James’ flat.

He let himself in with a credit card in two seconds flat and went straight to the bedroom. James’ bed was neatly made, his suit he’d been in at work the day before neatly on the back of a chair, his shirt and socks lay on top of the linen basket. The Bible and a prayer book and a couple of novels were by the bed, as well as a glass of water. Big mirror, one arty print, other than that, Spartan neatness.

Lewis opened the wardrobe doors. Good, he saw a suit carrier and a large weekend bag on the top shelf. Suits one side, shirts the other. Nice suits, expensive. Lewis ran his hand down the sleeve of one. The boy usually dressed well. There was a slight Hathaway smell, whatever that was, cigarettes, his cologne, his shampoo and something sweeter, make-up probably. Written over all that, James’ own smell.

Lewis put his nose to the suit sleeve and sniffed. He used to do that to Val’s clothes. For months. Lyn had tried and tried to get him to clear out her stuff, but he couldn’t. Months, her smell had lingered in some of her things. Her perfume, her lipstick, even the faint trace of schools lingered, but mostly her own sweet Val-ness. How could he have got rid of her stuff?

In the end, he hadn’t. Lyn had, coming down and sorting out the house, Val’s gone and his in storage and letting the house while he was in the British Virgin Isles. With his permission, of course. And away, he’d finally stopped drinking enough to make Morse look like a teetotaller!

Morse, of course, had his own smell, too, and sometimes Lewis would catch the brand of cigarettes on a man who drank the same ales and the ache of missing the man, his boss, his mentor, his friend, would hurt as much as the day he’d died.

But that pain was a mere faint echo of what he felt when he smelt Val’s perfume. Like with that poor girl a couple of years ago. James hadn’t really understood. But perhaps to understand grief you have to understand love, and James hadn’t had much of a childhood in which to learn of love. Sex, yes. Although, can you really understand sex without love, and didn’t it make him queasy to even use the word sex to what James had gone through?

Why had he read the statement? He wished he’d hadn’t. God knew how much he wished he hadn’t.

Lewis sighed and began to make himself busy. About a week, he guessed, and James had said he wanted to come back to work. So, suits then, and shirts and ties. He chose his favourites, the ones he thought James looked particularly nice in. Or rather, particularly sexy. Since he was now being honest with himself. Since he’d gone gay. Or was bisexual. Or something. Maybe it was just James. But then, hadn’t it been just Val?

Lewis sealed the suit carrier and opened the bag. First and foremost, boxers, and more that one pair of pyjama trousers, the poor boy was bleeding, or had been. Might start again.

Didn’t want to think of that.

Read over Laxton’s shoulder:

“More than once. With condoms, mostly. At least once without. Know more after forensics. Implements used. Most likely an iron bar. Blood lost minimal, but concerning. Cuts, abrasions and tears. No damage to artery.”

It was burned into his memory. Hadn’t even meant to read it.

Sick, twisted bastards!

Lewis busied himself folding cargos and trackie bottoms and the baggiest jeans he could find; tee shirts, hoodies; socks, boxers – mostly purple, some blue and some pink; vest tops that were stored with the pjs. What else?

Lewis headed for the bathroom and found a large wash bag, same design as the weekend bag and suit carrier. Of course Hathaway would coordinate his luggage! Shaving stuff – although, he probably wouldn’t want to shave with all that bruising. James with a beard? Unimaginable, Lewis found himself smiling at the thought. Could I kiss him with stubble, he asked himself?

Yeah. Yeah, why not? He loved him, kissing was about love wasn’t it? For him, it was.

Again he remembered the aggression in the way he’d forced James’ mouth open with his tongue, how he’d sucked James tongue. He was so ashamed of being so... so...? Demanding? Forceful?

Masculine.

You may be male, but you’re mine, I’m in charge here.

Stupid. Hadn’t needed aggression with Val.

He made himself sound like it was sexual queer bashing. Homophobia.

Self-loathing? Hadn’t really accepted he was in love with a man then.

Lewis snorted, welcome Robbie, to James’ world!

Maybe that was exactly what this Russian perpetrator was about. Fear of the self transposed onto the other.

How ponsy was that? Sounded like Val’s psychobabble!

Sighing, Lewis packed shower gel and shampoo, a toothbrush... he looked around. Decorated in the same tasteful creams, a pile of books, bubble baths and floating candles and an empty box of chocolates in the bin. He really didn’t need to force any issues over roles with Hathaway did he? Boys who are girls...? Nice neat, straight line down the middle? Rowing and scented candles?

Girls row.

Hathaway is not a girl. Just a bit...?

Confused?

A priest in white sparkling eye shadow and Jimmy Choos? Lewis smiled at the absurdity. Mind you, with all those purple and green and red dresses and stoles, all the drama of a mass with the incense and the bells, the processions and the music you wouldn’t need the shoes. Or the musicals.

He really, really needed more sleep!

Sod it!

Lewis decided to have a good nose around. Bathroom cabinet – paracetamol, aspirin, mouthwash, cotton wool, plasters, new toothbrush. Kitchen – lots of healthy fruit and veg., pasta, rice, lots of red wine and red bull, real coffee, which smelled lovely... Coffee, you could add that to James’ smell! Jars of pasta sauce and really healthy, expensive looking stuff. So, he did eat then?

Living room. Music dominated. He even had a proper record turntable, rare in one so young. CDs by the score, and the records. Like Morse, really. Unlike Morse, a real instrument, the guitar, in pride of place, on its stand. Lewis needed to find its case, it was obviously coming too. His baby. Apparently.

Lewis read some of the CD titles. Much more eclectic than Morse: Classical. Chamber music. Choral. World music. Rock. Pop. Musicals! That deserves a small tease, thought Lewis, smirking.

Huge, lonely, long, comfy sofa. Big coffee table, again piled with books. Lewis avoided looking at the bookcases, it made him feel stupid. What would Morse have made of James? Morse, who dropped out, Morse the Grammar School boy wallowing in his education to show off, hiding a deep insecurity. Clever, yes. Thoughtful, not so. Arrogant in his education and cleverness? Probably. James wasn’t arrogant, and was also, probably, far more intelligent than Morse had ever been.

But Morse would have been kind to James, probably when he’d sussed him out, treating him with that gentle courtesy he reserved for women and messed up teenagers. Suddenly he could see Morse, smirking at him, one eyebrow raised in dirty suggestion.

“He’s been multiple raped and assaulted,” Lewis said out loud to the imaginary Morse.

“Well look after him Lewis. You’re very good at that,” replied the imaginary Morse.

He really, really, really needed some more sleep!

Lewis went back in the bedroom with the guitar and a carrier bag. He found the guitar case under the bed and stowed it safely. He put green cargos; a long sleeved white top and black tee shirt with an abstract green tree on the front and put them in the carrier bag with boxers, socks and trainers.

Shoes!

He went back to the wardrobe for work shoes. So many shoes! And look at the quality! And the style! Oh well, he’d packed three suits, better pack three pairs.

Dressing table with mirror built into the wardrobe unit. A hairbrush, hair gel? No. Would you look at all that? Val never had so much in the way of beauty products, nor did Lyn. A rip off, Lyn would say. Oh well, important to James though. He fetched the wash bag and tipped in sunblock (pale skin, strong sun, sunburn of bruising not a good idea), moisturizer, foundation, powder, blusher, mascara (of course, he looked naked without it in the hospital a few hours ago), and what else? So many to choose from? Pink/purple eye shadow, he’d packed pink and lavender shirts and ties? What did he know? Lip-gloss or lipstick? Neither, what with that great swollen, cut lip? Both? Let James decide. His face.

Lewis checked the drawers and wardrobe again and then had a look in the bedside cabinet. He ignored the Bible, etc, in so doing so ignored a prescribed pack of pills: Seroxat, which unbeknown to Thames Valley CID, DS Hathaway had been taking since the murders at Crevecoeur Hall. However, in the bedside drawer lay a very battered small cuddly Panda with a Cambridge Blue ribbon tied around its neck. It went in the bag, the wash bag on top and then Lewis finally zipped up the travel bag, ready to go.

In a kitchen drawer, behind the cutlery, he found the spare set of keys. That reminded him so he rang Laxton again.

“I didn’t think, did anyone stop his bank cards?”

“We have them back, actually, but yes, I got one of my DSs on to it first thing this morning. His wallet maybe evidence.”

“Thanks Angie.”

“No problem, Robbie. Just make sure I get an invite.”

“To what?”

“The civil partnership,” Laxton teased.

“Very funny,” Lewis sighed and hung up.

He stowed bag, suit carrier and guitar in the boot, kept the carrier bag with him and locked the flat. Now came the hard part, dealing with James deal with what happened, which he suspected would be not dealing with it so much as ignoring it and hoping it would go away.

Was he any better, he wondered?

No, he wasn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hathaway cleans. And thinks. And hates himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated again to the brilliant staff of the John Radcliffe's A&E in Oxford. Lewis' pov written after very little sleep after a night with my daughter, waiting to be seen by the paediatric neurologist. Hathaway's pov done a while ago.
> 
> Not exactly what you asked for, but for you Lady Death.
> 
> Lewis and Hathaway belong to ITV
> 
> (The very beautiful dawn sun soaked) Oxford is owned by the University Colleges, The Crown, The Church of England, Oxford City Council and Oxfordshire County Council, the later who should be lined up against a wall, or even better, all magically transported into a pain ridden disabled body left caring for an autistic child and see how they cope with their savage cuts to care, support, school and charity funding....
> 
> Full story of my sad notes here http://asparagusmama.livejournal.com/

Between chapters three and four – Hathaway alone after Lewis has crashed

Hathaway stared at the prone figure a few moments before sighing. So much of the past 12 hours or so were a blank, but he remembered he’d somehow got to Lewis’ flat after dawn and Lewis had turned up later, in a tux, and stayed with him in the rape suite and the hospital. And he was right; he couldn’t have had as much sleep. James had slept for four or five blissful hours of the heavily sedated, waking up to find Lewis with clean clothes and, scarily, a drip in his arm. But the kind nurse had removed it once he’d taken his blood pressure and discharged him there and then.

He’d had strange dreams, shadowy images of Sergei and Mortmaigne; driven away by Lewis, a strange, fairy tale, younger version... he’d dreamt of Lewis kissing him. Just a dream. Lovely dream. He could kiss him, right now, so zonked was his boss, he never would know.

Hathaway shuddered! What was he thinking? Consent was a seriously important issue.

He sighed again and pulled off Lewis’ shoes and socks, hauled of his jacket, rolled him over and took off his tie, undid his collar and pulled him properly up the bed, negotiating the quilt over his boss. He closed the curtains and tidied up before shutting the door behind him and went to the living room/kitchen.

He put the kettle on and tried to find a clean coffee cup. There was none. Sighing, James began to tackle the washing up. It wasn’t like Lewis to leave things, but he supposed he must have been a distraction for his boss. Lewis was seriously concerned, and protective maybe, of him. It was sweet, and probably very paternal. James didn’t want a father figure, though, but he decided any affection from Lewis was better than none. And, well, now he knew. That is, now Lewis knew his sergeant was gay, and it didn’t seem to bother him.

Still thinking about how he would really like Lewis to love him he started to wipe the washing up bowl and clean the sink, but his attention was grabbed by a disgusting smell. He was horrified, the sink was blocked. Someone was tipping all kinds of crap down there and he didn’t think it was Lewis. He used the kettle to clear the sink and put it on again for coffee, cleaning the surfaces as he waiting. The edges were dusty and greasy. Perhaps he should tell Lewis he had a cleaning lady who was crap? Either that or she was taking the piss, taking his money and doing bugger all?

Still, the cleaning sort of kept him occupied. When he sat down on Lewis’ sofa with his coffee, switching on the TV for something to stare at, dark thoughts came unbidden in to his mind.

Sergei hadn’t raped him, according to the previous MO. But the forensics had two separate DNA samples. So he had. Or there was a third, new assailant. Or someone found him in the allotments and raped him?

He was drugged. They’d used a massive dose. It must have been the tea. He’d not drunk anything in Communion or the Bear. He had been stupid. From now on he was only drinking something offered in a sealed bottle or can.

But that sounded paranoid and stupid, not to say anti social.

How had he been so stupid? Why did he just agree to get on that bus with Sergei? How could he have been so trusting?

Sergei was nice. Or seemed it. Conversation with someone he’d never see again was attractive.

So was Sergei, said a small, critical, self-loathing part of himself.

He’d said clearly nothing was going to happen.

Maybe part of you wanted something, maybe you gave off the wrong signals, the same critical part said.

It’s my fault.

Maybe I asked for it.

Maybe I’ve been giving off the wrong signals since I was small?

Stop!

James found himself rocking, clutching his abdomen; scared to find that the strange whimpered howling was coming from him. Was he going mad?

He fetched his prescriptions and stared at the Valium before taking the codeine. Then he looked at the pile by the door of his bags Lewis had packed. He hung the suit carrier on the door and picked up his guitar, strumming a few cords before laying back and closing his eyes, picking out random cords, suddenly plucking a tune out of his head, an achingly sad, miserable little tune. He stopped, realising his face was wet with tears.

Fate worse than death, he thought, quoting randomly.

Is it?

Don’t wish I were dead, just that I hadn’t been so stupid.

Or I could remember. Maybe knowing would make it easier to deal with.

Or maybe not.

God, he hurt. And he felt overwhelming filthy. Lewis wouldn’t mind if he had a bath.

He grabbed his weekend bag – pyjamas, underwear, tees, tracky bums, another pair of cargos, jeans, hoody, socks, shoes, ties... three suits were in the suit carrier, with six shirts. How long did Lewis envision him staying?

James felt himself blush at the thought of Lewis going through his things. Everything was nicely folded, and well chosen. He pulled out his wash bag and found his old toy panda. Panda, given to him by his Grandpa when he’d been a toddler. Panda, who knew everything Augustus had done to him and had kept the nightmares at bay when he was small. Panda who had come secretly to boarding school, only to find most of the eleven years boys were all hiding secret soft toys. How like Lewis to find and pack Panda but leave his Bible and Prayer Book at the flat. He was both touched and annoyed.

He opened his wash bag. Shaving stuff. God, no way was he shaving, the thought of dragging a razor across these bruises and cuts was terrifying...

But Lewis might not look at me unshaven, he might...

What, James? He doesn’t look at you anyway. Not unless you do a Zoe! He’s straight.

Shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, toothbrush, shaving gel, moisturizer, sun block, foundation, powder, blusher, mascara, lip gloss, eye shadow duo – pink/purple – oh shit shit shit! These were all separately in his bedroom and bathroom. Lewis had found these and decided to bring them. Why?

Because he’s a bloody good detective and notices things, stupid!

He doesn’t notice I’m in love with him.

Does he?

Maybe he just thinks it’s a stupid immature crush I’ll get over. Grow out of.

He knew I was gay before he asked. My answer must have annoyed him, especially later. He must think I’m a hypocrite.

Or fucked up, said the same voice of self-hatred and scorn. He thinks you’re a total fuck up. And that was before this happened.

Angry at his own self-loathing he stood up, determined to get pro-active and went to the bathroom and ran himself a bath. He lay back in the water, as hot as he could tolerate, feeling relief as the warmth numbed and soothed the bruising and cuts. He so wanted to just scrub and scrub at his body but he was in far too much pain for that; just scrub and scrub all traces of Sergei – of whomever! – off his body and so out of his mind.

He’d taken so many baths and showers in Cambridge that time.

He’d used to feel so dirty and filthy as a child, too. Weird, for a boy of that age, to want to get in the bath, he supposed. Especially after Augustus had... Stop!

Good, his mind could still do as it was told. He’d taught himself years ago to just stop the memories before they started. Giving his statement had been hell. Laxton had been impressed, but he’d pretended that part of him was someone separate, like interviewing himself. That way he’d been able to speak in the interview in a rather cold, distant voice that wasn’t related to any feelings or memories or pain.

Not that there had been pain like this! Nor had there been at Cambridge after all the times that bastard had...

Stop!

He got out of the bath, ignoring the fact he was crying silently again.

After he was dry he went back to clean the bath and saw how disgusting everything was at the corners, under and behind the toilet, the taps and shower, the skirting board. What was Lewis paying this woman?

Cleaning was a distraction, and took over an hour, after which he returned to the kitchen area and scrubbed the work surfaces and floor there too.

Mind numbed, body screaming in pain again, he looked in the fridge, supposing he must eat something before he took more painkillers.

Ugh!

James emptied the fridge, scrubbed it, got rid of all the mouldy, gone bad, stinky food and replaced all the nasty, chemical filled ready meals his boss lived on. What was left was a few bits of salad, the heel of cheese, the mould scraped off, and three eggs. James made himself an omelette and salad and more coffee, finishing the juice while it was cooking. He fetched the spare quilt and pillow and switched the TV back on, curling up on the sofa with the food and coffee to stare, blank eyed, at Stargate.

He was half way through eating when the memory, unbidden, and certainly not wanted, a very visceral and vivid memory, rose in his mouth: waking up with the taste of semen in his mouth, half conscious and not knowing why and feeling terrified. Bile rose in his throat and James, pushing the quilt aside, leapt off the sofa and just made it to the kitchen sink before he threw up violently.

Throwing up.

Throwing up, aged six, onto his lordship and getting smacked. Throwing up in the door to the Summerhouse. Throwing up on the Chase. By eight years old making it as far as the back woods to throw up in peace and privacy.

Waking up to that taste.

Waking up to one of his earliest memories.

Not something he’d told Laxton. The taste. The always throwing up. The terrible fear of suffocating. The promises, the bargains with God, he’d made to get it to stop.

Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! I broke my promise and now you punish me! I’m sorry, so sorry. Forgive me, I can’t help loving him, I can’t...

James was surprised to find himself curled up in a ball on the kitchen floor, making the same horrible whimpering noise.

God forgive me, please, but I need...

James hauled himself up painfully, washed out the sink and his mouth, took the Ibrufopen 500 and Valium, washed up, folded the quilt and returned it and the pillow to the cupboard, brushed his teeth and then quietly, so quietly, opened the door to the bedroom, Panda in one hand, and crawled into Lewis’ bed on the left side, Val’s side, and fell almost instantly and dreamlessly asleep.


End file.
